“Oh!” said Violet, “I hope you will not do that when the young gentleman is on your back.”

“Why not?” said Tidy.

“Because,” said Violet, “you may throw him off, and perhaps kill him; and consider how cruel that would be, after all his kindness to us.”

“Oh,” said Tidy, “people always call us donkeys stupid and lazy and slow, and they praise the horse for being spirited and lively; and so the horses get corn and hay and everything that is good, and we get nothing but grass.  But I intend to be lively and spirited and get corn.”

“Take care what you do, Tidy,” said Violet.  “The gentleman wishes to buy a quiet donkey, to carry his little boy gently.  If we do not behave ourselves well, he surely will send us back to the common.”

But Tidy was foolish and proud, and, the next time he went out, he began to frisk about very gayly.

“I fear,” said the gentleman, “that the good grass has spoiled Tidy.”

[Illustration]

Tidy heard this, but, like other young and foolish things, he would not learn.  Soon, the little dog Grip passed by, and Tidy laid his ears back on his neck and rushed at Grip to bite him.

“Really,” said the gentleman, “Tidy is getting quite vicious.  When we get home, we will send Tidy away, and we will keep Violet.”

Tidy, as you may believe, was sorry enough then.  But it was too late.  He was sent away to the bare common.  But Violet still lives in the gentleman’s field, eats nice grass, goes easy journeys, and is plump and happy.

[Illustration]

JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT.

Poets have a great deal to answer for, and they should be careful what they say, for they’ve no idea what an influence they have.  Now, I’m told that about one hundred and fifty years ago, one by the name of Thomson (Thomson without a p) sang: 

      “Hail, gentle Spring!  Ethereal mildness, hail!”

and made no end of trouble, of course.  March being the first spring month, was the first to hear the command, and so, ever since, she has been trying her best to hail.  Failing in this, as she nearly always does, her only recourse is to blow; and blow she does, with a will.  So don’t blame her, my chicks, if she deals roughly with you this year, blows your hair into your eyes, and nearly takes you off your feet.  It’s all the fault of that poet Thomson.

I suppose if he had sung to our great American cataract, he would have told it to trickle, or drip, or something of that sort; and then what would have become of all the wedding tours?  Mrs. Sigourney, my birds tell me, was a poet of the right sort.  She sang, “Roll on, Niagara!”—­and it has rolled on ever since.

Talking of fluids, here’s a letter telling

HOW CHERRY PLAYED WITH WATER.

A good friend sends Jack this true horse-story: